Roses and Thorns
by PhoenixStarcatcher
Summary: (Spoilers for Season 4) A series of little stories about Rosie growing up. Suggestions welcome and wanted!
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This is my first Sherlock fanfic, and I'm sorry if it's absolute crud. Please review, I need your feedback. Thanks for reading.**

 **Disclaimer: Guess what? I don't own Sherlock, or any of the characters, for that matter!**

Molly took Rosie from John's arms as he retreated to his bedroom. The one that he used to share with Mary. He was in no state to take care of a child, Molly understood, but she couldn't see why she had to take Rosie. After all, it wasn't like Rosie was her child, and maybe it would do John some good to take responsibility for the girl, pull him out of his depressed state. For now, Molly would just have to deal with it. Perhaps John would get better quickly and Molly could go back to work. Because, although she loved Rosamund, she wasn't getting paid to take care of her, and she really couldn't live without her salary.

She sent Sherlock away as quickly as she could, hating every word that came out of her mouth. Molly needed every extra pair of hands she could get, even if John didn't want the help. After all, he wasn't very helpful himself, was he? She was so desperate for help that she almost ran after Sherlock and begged him to come back, but couldn't force herself to disobey John. Rosie was his baby. So she went back inside and sat with Rosie on the couch, and finally just let herself cry. Mary was gone, and she was never coming back. The little girl seemed concerned, tugging at Molly's shirt until she realized that Molly was ignoring her, and then simply fell asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Sorry about how short the last one was. Just realized that this one is not that much longer. Oops!. Also, I hadn't seen "The Lying Detective" when I wrote this, so… (and see if you can spot the Hamilton reference in the beginning, because I was listening to the end of Hamilton while writing this)**

 **Disclaimer: I still don't own Sherlock, however much I wish I did… not all dreams come true.**

Sherlock didn't stop knocking on John's door. Finally, after Molly had turned him away seven times, John got up from the couch. He approached the door with caution, afraid of what he would say to his former friend when he opened the door. To censor himself, he grabbed Rosie. By his logic, he couldn't say anything too awful while holding his daughter.

"What in the world could you possibly want, pounding on my door like this when I'm trying to get the baby to sleep!" John said, glancing at Rosie to make sure she wasn't about to cry. "You're not welcome here, and you know that! You killed my wife, you bastard. So don't ever think that you are anywhere _near_ welcome in this home."

"I didn't kill your wife, John." Sherlock fought to remain calm. "She did something that she shouldn't have. I don't deserve what she gave me, and I just want you to know that I'm sorry, and I know that I can't possibly make this up to you." John stood openmouthed. "And I'd like you to know that if I could have traded her life for my own, she'd be standing here instead of me." He pushed a badly wrapped gift into John's hands before turning on his heel and leaving.

"That's it? An apology and a gift? No conceited comments? Nothing?" John hissed at Sherlock's back.

Sherlock didn't even turn around. "There are none to be made. This is honestly one of the worst tragedies I have ever experienced, and so, if you don't mind, I'm going to go and try not to kill anybody. You know, anybody else."

John could hear the tightly reined in emotion in Sherlock's voice. He simply nodded and went back inside, handing Rosie to Molly on his way to his room. Once seated on his bed, he unwrapped the package. He pulled out a picture, probably taken with Sherlock's phone when Mary wasn't paying attention, of Mary lying on the floor of their home, holding Rosie up above her. They were beaming at each other, looking so carefree and happy. John couldn't stand it. He threw the frame across the room, the glass shattering. He stretched out without even bothering to start cleaning it up. It wasn't like Rosie could open doors yet, so she wasn't in danger. And Mary was dead. Mary. The love of his life, slain by a bullet intended for Sherlock Holmes, the most arrogant man he'd ever met. It was so easy to blame him, to hate him, for something that John knew wasn't his fault.

He sat up again, and pulled the other item out of the wrapping. It was Rosie's favorite rattle, the one that had been left at Sherlock's because of all the time she spent there. Yet he hadn't returned the other things that they'd left at his flat. It was as if he wasn't yet ready to give up on his friendship with John. Maybe he wasn't as unattached as he pretended to be. John stood up again, stepped gingerly over the glass on the floor, and walked to Rosie's crib. He placed the rattle right next to her hand so that it would be there when she woke up. Then he grabbed the dustpan and broom and cleaned up the glass.

John grabbed the ruined frame off of the floor, and pulled the photo out. He tossed the frame in the kitchen trash, and used a magnet to attach the picture of Mary and Rosie to the refrigerator.

 **A/N: They will become more Rosie-centric as she gets older, but for now, there's not much to write about her. I'm also trying to put them in chronological order, but that might fail soon. I can't wait for her to get older, and for Sherlock and John to be friends again.**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: This one takes place after 4x02, The Lying Detective, and before the finale, because I wrote this on Saturday. I'm really sorry it took me so long to post this one. Also, I was planning on this one being light and happy, but it kind of took a turn towards sad and depressing… sorry.**

 **Disclaimer: Still don't own Sherlock, or any of the characters thereof.**

Sherlock and John always went out for lunch on Fridays. They brought Rosie with them, because they couldn't leave her alone, and Molly would come if she could get the day off. They weren't entirely sure why they had started doing this, but John maintained that a break would be good for them. Sherlock managed to overthink everything during lunch anyways.

That day, Molly had managed to get her boss to let her go, and so the four of them got sandwiches. Sherlock, John, and Molly were silent. Rosie wasn't even close. She was just learning to speak, and hadn't yet said a decipherable word. Mostly she rambled on loudly in complete gibberish, which John and Molly found endearing and Sherlock found flat out annoying. Her father thought that any minute now, she would utter her first word, and refused to leave his daughter's side for fear that he might miss it.

The three adults were eating in solemn silence when Rosie started to form a word. "P-p-"

"Papa?" John prompted her with his mouth full, though still beaming.

"P-p-Papa?" Rosie tilted her head at her father.

"Yes, sweetie?"

"W-where M-m-Mama?" Rosie pounded her fist on the table. "Mama! Wan' Mama!"

John stood up, obviously disturbed by Rosie's remembrance of Mary. He walked out of the restaurant and stood on the curb, quickly followed by Molly. Sherlock sat in front of the baby.

"She's gone, Rosie. She's gone, and she's never coming back." Then Sherlock picked her up, left enough money to pay for their lunch on the table, and walked out to stand beside his friends and grieve once again.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: This one skips quite a bit of time. Just so you know. Also, some long-overdue thanks to those who reviewed, Lilly Oakleaf 13 and Vivstar. Huge thanks to you guys. Along with that, I would also like to thank everybody who followed/favorited. Thanks to you, too. I'm kind of running short on ideas, so suggestions are really, really, welcomed. Thanks!**

 **Disclaimer: Didn't buy Sherlock in the last fourish days. Too much money.**

The banner hung in the doorway, the table was set, and the balloons were filled. Yet the only guests who would be coming would be John's friends. Rosie had specifically requested this, asking her dad not to invite her friends from nursery school. So only Sherlock, Molly, and Mrs. Hudson had been invited originally. Then Rosie had gotten on his case for not inviting, Mycroft and Lestrade, each of whom she had only met once or twice, and wasn't particularly close to. Yet she insisted, and so the final guest list for her third birthday party included them as well. John guessed that Sherlock wasn't happy about it, but he hadn't complained, a new course of action for him. In the end, John decided, Rosie was making him more responsible.

Around three, the guests began to trickle in. Molly was first. Then a text from Mrs. Hudson saying that she was trying to get Sherlock out the door, but he insisted on wrapping his somewhat oddly shaped present. Then Lestrade arrived, greeted with a wave from Rosie. Then came Mycroft, who held in his hand a present larger than the ones Molly and Lestrade had brought. Last came Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock holding a hastily wrapped present that had bits of black showing through, and Mrs. Hudson holding a hatbox. Rosie ran across the room towards Sherlock, who gave the present to John and picked her up, settling the girl on his hip. She hugged him tight, insisting, "I haven't seen you in foooreeever!"

"I wasn't aware that half a day was forever. Mycroft, were you aware of this scientific development?" Sherlock turned to his brother.

"Hmm? Oh, no. I'm afraid I was not. I must not be as up to date on these things as I think I am." Mycroft then turned away and resumed his conversation with Lestrade.

A few minutes later, once John and Molly had settled the cake on the table, John called everyone over. He settled Rosie in her chair and sat down directly to her right. "All right, everybody. We know why we're here today, correct? Today is Rosie's third birthday, and she wanted to celebrate with her family. Because, really, everybody in this room is family." The normal birthday rituals were performed, with the singing and the cutting and distribution of the cake. Finally, after a surprisingly long period of patience, Rosie insisted on opening her presents.

"Okay, okay, Rosie. Which one would you like to open first?" John collected the stack from the floor behind him.

"Daddy, don't be silly. I want to open yours first!" Rosie grabbed at the present with the familiar polka-dotted wrapping paper. John smiled at his daughter's loyalty.

Rosie eagerly ripped the paper off, revealing a cardboard box. She then tore open the box and held up a stuffed penguin. This was another addition to her collection. Stuffed animals were the only presents she ever asked for. John then supplied her with another present, chosen at random, and cleaned up the wrapping paper in front of her. Rosie pulled out another stuffed animal, a polar bear from Mrs. Hudson. She and her father proceeded in this manner until she had unwrapped a dog from Molly, a kitten from Lestrade, and a tiger accompanied by a copy of Tom Sawyer, "For when she's old enough," from Mycroft. The only present left was Sherlock's hideously wrapped one, which John had specifically saved for last. He handed it to Rosie and cleaned up Mycroft's Christmas-themed wrapping paper. Rosie tore the wrapping paper off, even more excited than she had been for her father's present. Quickly and easily, she uncovered a small black violin case.

"I got her a one-eighth size violin. Her arms _are_ rather short…" Sherlock trailed off when he saw the looks on everybody else's faces. "What? She's three now, the same age I was when I started."

"Yes Sherlock. And I'm sure that nobody in the room except perhaps Rosie wants my daughter to turn out like you." John said, "A violin, Sherlock. For a three-year-old?"

"You know she'll take care of it. She's careful. And I can teach her. A few months ago she mentioned wanting to learn, so I dug out my old eighth size."

Rosie interrupted the tension between her father and his best friend. "I love it, Sherlock!" she announced in her trademark lisp. "I absolutely love it!"

Sherlock smiled. "I'm glad you like it, Rosie. Now do you want to learn how to play?"

Suffice it to say that Rosie's first note, played right there and then, sent everybody but Sherlock diving for cover.

 **A/N: Wow, that was really fluffy. I got kind of lazy towards the end, if you couldn't tell. I hope you like it!**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: I got a few requests for one of Rosie's violin lessons, so here goes…**

 **Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN SHERLOCK! Now let me drill that into your head every chapter. Sry, I feel like I have to.**

 **Another Disclaimer: I'm not a violinist. I am a saxophonist and a pianist. Don't kill me, violinists.**

Sherlock sat in his chair, violin in hand. Rosie sat in the chair usually reserved for clients, her legs swinging and her violin on her lap. She looked reverently to her instructor, the kind of look saved for those who have thoroughly impressed the bestower. Yes, Rosie was impressed. And certainly not by the violin concerto Sherlock had just played. She was impressed by how confident he was, how completely sure of his abilities. Even at three, she couldn't be that confident about anything. Rosie hoped to someday be that confident, whether it was in her violin skills or in something completely different.

Sherlock stood and walked over to Rosie, kneeling by the chair. He guided her hand to the bow. "Hold it like this. No, not like that, Rosie, like this. Your fingers shouldn't touch the hair. Yes, like that." Sherlock held his hand on the little girl's tiny fingers. "There, you've got it."

He then demonstrated how to hold the violin. Rosie gingerly placed the violin under her chin. "Goodness, child. It doesn't bite." Sherlock repositioned her fingers, and Rosie put them back the way they were. He corrected them again and again, until finally, they stayed. "Stubborn, aren't we?"

Half an hour later, she was playing. Sure, it was screechy, and sent John and Mrs. Hudson diving for cover, but it was music. Rosie was undeniably proud of herself.

"Next week, same time?" Sherlock asked John.

"You know we're always here," he replied.

"Daddy, Daddy!" Rosie interjected.

"Yes, darling?"

"Tomorrow! I want to come back tomorrow!"

And that was how it started. Every day, Rosie would pull out her violin, and she and Sherlock would play. Every day, her tone got better, and every day, she played harder music.

 **Ten years later:**

 _A/N: Just a warning, this timeskip isn't permanent. This is just because I got impatient and I wanted to make her older for this, and this was something I really wanted to write._

"Sherlock, I am most definitely not in favor of this idea. You want to take my thirteen-year-old daughter into a maximum security prison so that she can play violin for your sister?" John was indignant. "Couldn't you just take a video?"

"John, I'm surprised! Surely you see the value of this outing! Anyways, Rosie has been accompanying us to crime scenes for years. She can see dead bodies, John, and she won't even talk to my sister. Eurus simply wanted to hear her play, after all that I've talked about her."

Rosie thundered up the stairs, home from school. "Hey, Dad." She hugged her father and Sherlock. "What are you arguing about? I could hear you from downstairs."

"It doesn't matter, darling. It's nothing." John ran his hand through his hair.

"Rosie, it's not nothing. Your father doesn't want you to come with me to play for Eurus, and so he's holding you back."

"Dad! This was something we agreed on ages ago! If you didn't want me to go, you should've told me then, because you can't stop me now."

"Watch me," John snarled, grabbing her by the hood of her coat. "I am not going to stand by and watch while Sherlock pulls you into a maximum security prison where we almost DIED because of his sister."

"That's over and done, and happened when I was a baby. Please, Dad. Sherlock and Mycroft will be there. I'll be fine." Rosie pulled free.

A sharp knock on the door startled them out of their argument. "Ah, yes. That will be my brother." Sherlock went downstairs to open the door, Rosie trailing after him as she had done since she was small.

"Mycroft, come in. We've been waiting for you for quite some time." Sherlock ushered him upstairs and into the flat, where he was assaulted by John.

"I thought you were better than this! Rosie is thirteen years old. Surely you understand that she's not anywhere near safe in a maximum security prison! How could you help Sherlock with this?" John said.

"Please, please, Mycroft. Sherlock promised that I could go. You promised that I could go. All I want to do is play my violin, and isn't the point of a maximum security prison that nobody's in danger. I feel that it would be a severe failure of the system if I were in danger there." Rosie shoved her father out of the way. "Please, Mycroft, please!"

Mycroft frowned. "Rosie has a point, John. After all, a maximum security prison is probably the safest place she could be. You let her take the Underground home from school every day, and this is London. Yes, John, she's certainly safer in the prison than here."

"Not a scratch on her. If she has so much as a paper cut, she'll never see either of you again!" John wiggled his finger at Sherlock. "Understand, Holmes? Do _you_ understand, ...other Holmes? Because I know exactly how much you care about her, and you'll never see her again if she comes home hurt!"

"Thank you Dad! Thank you!" Rosie ran downstairs to get her violin. "Sherlock, Mycroft! Are you coming or what?"

They arrived at Sherrinford a few hours later. Rosie was subdued, obviously nervous.

"Rosie, what are you nervous about? You're perfectly safe." Sherlock said.

"Oh, I know, I know. But I'm about to play for someone far better than anyone I've ever played for before. I feel a bit intimidated, that's all."

Sherlock and Rosie entered the cell area without Mycroft. Sherlock took his violin out of its case, motioning for Rosie to do the same, but to stand back for a moment. Then he began to play. The woman sitting with her back turned pulled a violin off of her lap and began to play as well. The hauntingly simple melodies intertwined into chords and a complex tune.

Rosie's hands began to shake as Sherlock motioned for her to play. He stopped, and she began, first playing a simple folk tune that she had learned for school to warm up. Then she began to venture into improvisation, and made up melodies based on sonatas and concertos she had learned. Eurus, who had stopped as soon as Rosie had started, turned around and began to play.

The two looked each other in the eye as they improvised a deceptively simple duet of chords and triplets. Rosie's perception of the music slowly altered, from something pretty to listen to into a theoretical and mathematical construction of great beauty and complexity. She would never hear anything the same way again.

 **A/N: Sorry, I got a little bit lazy at the end. Hope you enjoyed!**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Sorry it took me so long to update; I've been really super busy. Huge thanks to Oceanlily for the awesome review.**

John was nervous. He wasn't entirely sure why he was so nervous for Rosie's first day of school. After all, Rosie wasn't nervous at all, and she was more than prepared. She could read, write, identify parts of speech, and do basic math. She even had the multiplication table memorized. This was the knowledge generally given to children two years her senior. Yes, Rosie was definitely ready.

Rosie didn't want to go to school. It sounded positively awful to her, from what she'd heard her friends say. Children her age spent the whole time learning to read and write, things she'd already learned to do. All in all, it sounded like a bad idea.

The morning of the first day of school was a hurried affair. John had overslept because he'd been awake until three that morning thinking about Rosie. He had barely had time to wake Rosie and force her to get ready before they had to leave. He drove to her new school, an old brick building in the middle of the city. When she was older, she would be able to take the Underground home. For now, John would drive her.

John and Rosie stood outside of the school, surrounded by other children and their mothers. Rosie clung to her father's hand.

"Daddy," she whined. "Why do I have to go to school? You don't go to school. Sherlock doesn't go to school. And you're both smart."

"Yes, Rosie, but we went to school when we were your age. And we're grown-ups now. We don't have to go to school anymore." John led her inside. "And anyways, it will be fun. You'll make new friends, and learn new things."

Rosie shook her head furiously, pigtails whipping. "I don't want new friends. I want to be home. I won't learn anything here that you couldn't teach, me, Daddy."

John smiled. He led Rosie into the classroom and left, without any visual indication of second thoughts. But in his head he debated. Why would he make his beloved daughter do things she didn't want to do? She did have a point. Sherlock and John could teach her much more at home than she could ever learn at school. Yet someday she would have to make friends. And however much Sherlock could teach her about dead bodies and investigation, there was really nothing he could teach her about social skills. So he left, and went back to Sherlock's flat to mope and talk to clients.

Amazingly bored by the spiel the teacher was giving on the importance of education, Rosie pulled her book out of her backpack. It was a battered copy of _The Boy in the Striped Pajamas_ , her favorite book. John had read it to her so many times that the spine was cracked to the point where it was completely white. Rosie didn't mind that you couldn't see the title on the spine. It was the only book on her small shelf that was this way; she could easily tell which one it was. The teacher, who had introduced herself earlier as Miss Johnson… or Jensen… or something like that, walked around while she spoke. She quickly noticed the book on Rosie's desk.

"Miss Watson? Would you care to share what you're reading with the class?" She rapped her knuckles on the desk to get her pupil's attention.

"Yes, Miss… Miss. I'm reading _The Boy in the Striped Pajamas._ It's by John Boyne." Rosie struggled to remember the teacher's name.

"Don't you think that the themes of the Holocaust are a bit mature for you?"

Rosie smiled politely, a scathing remark forming in her mind. She bit it back, instead replying, "I don't think so, ma'am. In fact, I think that it's better that I learn about it now than later. There's no point in hiding the great tragedies of the modern world from a child just because she's only five years old."

"Rather eloquent and insolent for a five year old, aren't we?" Miss Whatever-Her-Name-Was smiled kind of evilly. Rosie already hated her.

"I'm sure most people wouldn't call knowledge insolence, Ma'am." The teacher quickly realized that this child did not belong in the lowest class in the school. That afternoon, when John came to pick Rosie up from school, he was pulled aside by the teacher.

"My name is Miss Jackson, and I think we need to talk about your daughter and her level of verbal proficiency."

Within a week, Rosie was in the same class as the eight-year-olds.

 **A/N: I know, I know. Another lazy ending. Anyways, did anybody notice the blatant P!ATD reference? Now here goes with the self promotion. I'm going to start an X-Men (movieverse) fic, so if anybody's interested in that fandom, I'd love to hear your input. Should be up in a week or so. After I rewatch all the movies.**


	7. Chapter 7

John grabbed Rosie's school bag from the hall. He was concerned that she hadn't shown him anything recently. After all, the day before had been Mother's Day. He pulled a crumpled piece of paper out of the bottom of the bag.

Dear Mummy,

Where are you? Everybody else has a Mummy who picks them up from school, packs their lunch, and gives them hugs and kisses. Why don't I? It's not that I don't love Daddy. He's amazing, and I love him so much. It's just that I feel different. Are you somebody I know? Are you Molly? Mrs. Hudson? Sherlock? I really don't know where you are, and I need you.

It's not fair that everybody else has a mummy and a daddy, when I only have a daddy. Vivian is really the luckiest of us all. She has two Mummies. It seems like most people's families are the same, but the two of us are different. Sherlock says that different is good, that normal is boring. I just want to be like everybody else. People notice that I don't have a mum, and they ask questions. It's like when people notice Sherlock. I don't like the attention. Why can't I just fit in? If you came back, I would finally be normal. Why can't you come back?

Rosie

Two tears tracked their paths down his face. One for his daughter, who, at the age of eight, already was desperate to be like everybody else. One for his wife. Mary. When she needed him most, he had failed her, and now when he needed her, she wasn't there. He was awful at this.

Rosie walked by, noticing her father's tears. She stood in the doorway for a moment before walking past without saying a word. Was it her fault he was crying? SHe didn't want to think about it.

 **A/N: This will most likely be my last post on this story for a while. I'm really sorry, but I'm focusing on other stories for a while. If you want to check those out, you can. They're not on Sherlock, though, so… It's been a pleasure writing for you, and huge thanks to everybody who reviewed.**


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